


Love Thy Neighbour

by Vamillepudding



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: When Arthur finds himself locked out of his apartment, he needs to take shelter with one of his neighbours. That said neighbour just so happens to be incredibly hot is just a bonus.**It only takes a couple of seconds after he’s pressed the name Eames for a male voice with an oddly misplaced British accent to sound over the speaker.“Who is this?”“It’s your new neighbour. Arthur. I moved in on Tuesday but I locked myself out.”“Right,” Eames says after a small pause. “See, I sympathise, I really do, but I don’t see what this has got to do with me.”





	Love Thy Neighbour

Today has not been a great day. Arthur has only moved in four days ago and hasn’t started unpacking any of the boxes yet, partly because he had a work project to finish and partly because he didn’t feel like it. This means his apartment currently looks like a depiction of modern art, some sort of statement that you would see a picture of and immediately dismiss.

There is just something incredibly depressing about moving, the whole effort it takes just to move your things from one place to another. But today was supposed to be different. He finished his project in the early hours of the morning, slept for three hours, got woken up by someone blasting music at eight o’clock for some reason, got out of bed equipped with both a headache and the full intention to get his shit together, only to realise that within four days, he’s already run out of coffee.

The headache intensified due to lack of caffeine, so he opened the next-best box labelled “clothes”, pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that are so tight it must be from his college years. Dressed like that, he’d gone to the grocery store, stocked up on coffee, bread and ice cream, only to realise fifteen minutes later that he’d forgotten his keys.

So here he is now, locked outside his apartment building with a bag full of groceries and sans phone, headache still pulsing behind his eyes, and already so completely done with today that he just sits down right there, on the pavement, to contemplate all of his life decisions that have led up to his point.

He sits like that for a few minutes until he almost gets run over by a bike. The cyclist says, “sorry, bro”, then, “do you know that you’re sitting very inconveniently,” and finally, “someone could get hurt like this, you know.”

Arthur says, “fuck off.” The cyclist rolls his eyes, but does bike away. The brief encounter was enough for Arthur to pull himself together. He gets up and within seconds, a plan has formed in his mind.

He’s new in this city, he doesn’t know anyone. His spare key is, as a direct result, on his set of keys with the others, also lying on the kitchen table, where it’s useless to him. He either needs to call the landlady or a locksmith – for both options, he needs a phone. His phone is also lying on the kitchen table, next to his keys.

Also, the ice cream is melting.

The next course of action seems obvious, now that he’s taken a moment to consider it. He looks at the intercom system, reading the different names carefully before picking one at random.

It only takes a couple of seconds after he’s pressed the name _Eames_ for a male voice with an oddly misplaced British accent to sound over the speaker.

“Who is this?”

“It’s your new neighbour. Arthur. I moved in on Tuesday but I locked myself out.”

“Right,” Eames says after a small pause. “See, I sympathise, I really do, but I don’t see what this has got to do with me.”

“I need you to let me in,” Arthur tells him. “I have to use your phone.”

Another pause. Then Eames says, “I would love to do that, but I am rather in the middle of something here, and-“

“You’re not letting me in,” Arthur realises. “Seriously? This will take two minutes. Are you kidding me?”

Eames is presumably trying to come up with some sort of apology but, in that moment, a heavy rain starts to fall. It’s the sort of rain that drenches you to the bone within seconds, the kind that seemingly stays with you even after you’ve taken a shower. Arthur has never liked rain (he prefers the burning Californian sun). Right now, it couldn’t be more inconvenient.

“Do you hear that?” he demands. “It’s raining. Are you really going to let me stand out here in the cold?”

“It’s 28 degrees,” Eames tells him.

Arthur says, “I don’t know what that means.”

A sigh. Then the door buzzes open.

***

Eames, it turns out, lives on the fourth floor, directly below Arthur. Their apartments are identical in design, but while Arthur’s is a mess, Eames’ is…well, it’s really nice, actually. Lots of warm colours and whimsical décor that makes Arthur feel like he knows Eames, just a little.

Because that train of thought can lead to nothing good, he says, “your phone?”

Eames hands him a smartphone, already unlocked. Arthur types in the number of his landlady and presses _dial_. While he waits, he follows Eames into the kitchen and watches him put on the kettle. It occurs to him then, for the first time since he entered this apartment, that Eames is actually kind of…hot.

Which is clearly ridiculous. He can’t sleep with a guy who wouldn’t even let him in until he was practically drowning.

Can he? No. But, can he?

Obviously he doesn’t say any of this out loud. What he does say is, “I hope you’re making coffee.”

Caught off-guard, Eames says, “Uhm.”

“I need coffee. I can’t function without coffee. Is this a British thing? Because it’s annoying.”

“It’s a me-thing,” Eames says. The kettle goes _pling_ and Eames opens a cupboard full of mugs. Arthur notices how he hesitates before taking two cups out. Eames puts a tea bag in one, then looks at Arthur questioningly. Arthur sighs, and nods.

The call finally goes to voicemail. He redials.

On the fourth ring, his landlady picks up.

“Mr Eames?”

“Actually, it’s Arthur. I moved in earlier this week?”

“Right,” his landlady says, only betraying a hint of confusion. “How lovely. Is everything alright?”

Arthur explains the situation. When he’s done, his landlady heaves the sort of sigh that never forebodes anything good.

“Oh, how terribly inconvenient. I’m afraid I’ll be out of town until tomorrow. If you can possibly wait until then, I’ll be over in the afternoon. What dreadful business.”

Arthur considers – either pay the locksmith, or pay for a hotel room. The costs will be about the same.

“I’ll wait,” he says.

After he’s hung up, he sips his tea, aware that Eames is staring at him and presumably heard the entire conversation.

“What?” Arthur asks defensively. Eames shakes his head, seeming amused by something, and says, “I’m going to make breakfast. You’re welcome to stay.”

Arthur didn’t expect this. “I thought you were in the middle of something.”

“I lied,” Eames says cheerfully, like this is an entirely normal thing to do that anyone can easily admit to. “How do you like your eggs?”

***

Eames makes amazing eggs. Arthur has known the guy for an hour, tops, and has no reason to be surprised by this, but he is. The meal is even good enough to console him about the lack of coffee, actually, and even better if you consider the fact that he’s basically lived on takeout this past week.

Halfway through breakfast, Eames asks, “so, you’re a college student, are you?”

Arthur almost chokes. “No, I graduated years ago. Do I look like I’m in college?”

“Well,” says Eames, eyebrows raised, “that jumper was a good indicator.”

Arthur looks down: He is indeed wearing the sweatshirt that labels him as a former member of one of Los Angeles’ community colleges. He hasn’t worn it in ages; probably not since graduation.

Eames, whether he’s grown up in the U.S. or only moved here recently, must surely realise that the college name is not an Ivy League one, and not one of the top non-Ivy League ones, either. But he doesn’t say anything, and Arthur at 28 refuses to be embarrassed by what embarrassed him at 18.

He says curtly, “it was in one of the boxes, so,”, as if that is in any way a good explanation. Eames doesn’t question it though, just nods and takes another bite.

They’re almost done when Arthur remembers something. “Shit. I bought ice cream earlier. It must be liquid by now.”

Eames is already digging through his grocery bag. He holds up the container in question and opens it over the kitchen sink, where part of the content immediately seeps out.

“It’s fine,” he declares, because apparently his definition of the word vastly differs from Arthur’s own. “We can just put it in the freezer.”

Arthur, alarmed, says, “actually, we can’t.”

Eames looks interested. “Why not?”

“When ice cream melts, it grows bacteria, so you can’t put it back in the fridge.” Now, Eames is starting to look amused again.

“Googled that, did you?”

“Yes,” Arthur admits. “After I got food poisoning because I had the same idea.”

“It’s a shame,” Eames muses. “I suppose we could just make milk shakes with it.”

They make milkshakes and drink them in front of Eames’ TV, where an episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show is playing.

After ten minutes, Arthur speaks up. “I don’t get it,” he says. “So did she cheat on him with his brother or his father?”

“I think it was both of them,” Eames says as onscreen, Jeremy Kyle is breaking up a fistfight. “Bet you ten quid that she’s pregnant.”

“Done,” says Arthur. In the show, a woman shouts “I’m (beep)ing pregnant”. “How do none of these people understand birth control?” Arthur asks, bewildered. “It’s not hard. It’s literally the easiest thing in the world.”

Eames says, “Five quid says the baby is from her husband’s dad.”

***

In the middle of the third episode, Arthur abruptly grabs the remote and turns off the television. To Eames’ look of betrayal he says, “I think I am literally losing a brain cell per minute watching this crap.”

“We could switch to EastEnders.”

“I’m good.” Only after the words have left his mouth does he realise that he should probably go now. He’s got no real reason to stay, hasn’t had one for several hours now. It’s just past noon, so-

“Have you ever painted a room before?” Eames asks. Arthur stares at him.

“No.”

“See, I’ve got this spare bedroom that I’ve been wanting to renovate for months now. Bought the paint and all, but it’s just been sitting around. I’ve been waiting for the mood to strike me.”

“And it’s struck you _today_?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“No time like the present,” Eames says, like this makes in any way sense. “I’ll go get the paint, you should probably change into something lighter.”

“I don’t have anything lighter,” Arthur reminds him, in case Eames has forgotten.

Eames shrugs, apparently unconcerned. “Just take on of my t-shirts – bedroom’s that way.”

Arthur does as he’s told and enters Eames’ spare bedroom a few minutes later wearing a black t-shirt that is way too big for him.

“Good pick,” Eames says, surveying him with narrowed eyes. “Lots of memories in that shirt. Got one of my tattoos wearing it, got shot in it, would have gotten married in it if I hadn’t sobered up in time.”

Unsure how many of these things are jokes, and also exactly how far Eames’ nostalgia goes, Arthur says, “should I change into another one?”

“Leave it on,” Eames tells him dismissively. “And don’t be afraid to get it dirty, either. One shirt is a small price to pay for a newly painted room.”

Arthur is about to point out that actually, it’s two shirts, when Eames takes his off. Arthur is overcome by the sudden urge to tell Eames to put it back on. Clearly that is ridiculous, so he doesn’t, but he also feels like he can’t possibly work when Eames looks like this.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Eames says and throws him a roller. It hits Arthur, who is still staring at the work of art that is Eames’ upper body, on the head. Eames laughs, and Arthur manages to both glare and blush, and then, they really do get started.

***

While the first coat of paint is drying, Eames orders pizza. “Which toppings do you want? Don’t say pineapple.”  
Arthur says, “ham and pineapple.”

Eames laughs until he realises that Arthur isn’t joking. “The betrayal,” he says dramatically. “I am afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, Arthur.”

He sounds so utterly serious that Arthur says uncertainly, “oh” and gets up.

“What are you doing?” Eames asks. Arthur, cheeks heating up already, sits back down and tries to pretend like he totally knows what’s going on, like he’s able to just roll with things the way Eames apparently is.

Eames lets it go, and when their pizza arrives, he hands Arthur a beer. Arthur considers the fact that it’s three in the afternoon, also considers the fact that he is in the flat of what is essentially a stranger, painting someone else’s room and, as of now, without a place to sleep tonight. He takes the beer.

Some time later, they get back to painting. Once three out of four walls are “eggshell white”, Eames reveals that he wants an accent wall.

“Do you have more paint?” Arthur asks. Eames says blithely, “let’s go buy some. I’m thinking blue.”

***

Arthur owns a car. He’s lived in big cities all his life and is aware that cars are something of an inconvenience, but he loves driving, so he’s never had the heart to sell the car he bought in high school, with half of his painfully-acquired savings.

The car, at the point of buying, had been about a decade old, and has aged over one decade since. Eames, fully dressed again and flopping down into the passenger seat, says, “this car looks like it’s about to break down.”

“That’s part of her charm,” Arthur tells him, and presses the already exposed ignition and starter wires together to start the car, feeling Eames’ eyes on him the whole time.

Once they’re on the way to Walmart, Eames says, “so how often do you hotwire cars?”

“Cars, plural, or this one specifically?” Arthur asks. He knows his dimples betray the joke, so he explains, “the ignition broke down a while ago, so I watched a few Youtube tutorials.”

“I think,” Eames says, voice full of awe, “I’ve just fallen in love.”

***

The entire trip takes over two hours. Why? Because Eames manages to change his mind no less than eight consecutive times about the paint colour. Arthur stopped participating in the discussion ages ago, the shop assistant is still trying.

“I’m just not sure this is the one,” Eames tells the poor woman. “This will be on my wall for a long time. I just want to be _absolutely certain_.”

Arthur goes through the paint samples and accidentally brings the whole shelf crashing to the floor. The whole thing is a testimony to how little he’s slept this past week. Both Eames and the shop assistant look over, the latter clearly deciding that one difficult customer is enough right now as she goes back to her conversation with Eames.

Fed-up, Arthur walks back over and touches Eames’ arm to get his attention. “Just pick one,” he says. “We can always repaint it if you don’t like it.”

Eames’ gaze wanders from Arthur’s hand, still on his arm, to Arthur’s face, trying to discern his sincerity. Arthur doesn’t know what he looks like right now, but can only imagine that it’s a mixture of tiredness and annoyance.

Whatever it is, it clearly convinces Eames, who nods and says, “alright, I do believe I’m going with sunflower yellow.”

The fact that sunflower yellow had not even been under consideration in the previous discussion is enough that Arthur makes them stop for coffee on their way home.

***

They drink another beer while painting the accent wall, and a third one after that. Arthur is feeling pleasantly buzzed by the time they’re done. They stand in the door frame together, shoulders touching, inspecting their work.

“Happy?” Arthur asks. Without hesitation, Eames replies, “yes.” They don’t move for a while longer, but eventually Eames says, “do you want to shower first?”

“Alright,” Arthur says. This time, he retrieves clothes from Eames’ bedroom without being asked.

The hot water and steady water pressure feel like a blessing. He shamelessly uses Eames’ shampoo, which smells like oranges, and dries himself off with the towel Eames had thrown at him earlier. Feeling human again, he leaves the bathroom and, when Eames is about to go in, says, “can I use your laptop?”

Eames rattles off a random series of numbers that must be the password before closing the door in Arthur’s face. When he comes out some time later and joins Arthur on the sofa, Arthur has located a hotel that’s close and seems affordable.

Eames says, “so I was thinking, maybe we could-“, and breaks off abruptly as he looks at the screen. Voice and face now equally blank, he says, “you’re leaving then, are you?”

“I just need somewhere to stay the night,” Arthur says. “This seemed the best option.” He can’t help but feel that he’s done something wrong here, although he can’t think of what. “I’ll return the clothes within the week, is that okay?”

“If that’s what you want,” Eames says neutrally. Arthur hates this, the way it suddenly feels like he’s talking to a stranger, when over the course of this day, he’d thought they’d grown comfortable in each other’s presence.

“Thanks for letting me spend the day,” he says, because he wants this day to end on a positive note. “I haven’t made any friends yet in this city, so this was – really nice, and I’m very thankful.”

“Well,” Eames says, “as long as you’re very thankful.” His tone is mocking now. Arthur feels like he should apologise, though he doesn’t know what for. He does it anyway.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken up your time like that.”

“You didn’t take up my time,” Eames tells him, sounding urgent. “Is that what you think?”

“Well.”

“You didn’t,” Eames insists. Arthur suddenly remembers that they’re both a little drunk right now, which must be the reason why their conversation has taken such an unexpectedly honest turn. “And I’m trying really hard not be creepy when I say this, but if this is just about needing place to sleep, you can stay here, if you want. I don’t mind.”

Somehow, Arthur actually believes him. He closes the laptop and smiles, knowing that his dimples are visible. “Alright.”

***

Once the main question is settled, there is still the question of where exactly Arthur will sleep in Eames’ flat. The spare bedroom is, for obvious reasons, uninhabitable right now. Arthur would be fine sleeping on the couch, except Eames insists he take the bed.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says, not for the first time. “This is your place, you shouldn’t sleep on the sofa.”

“You’re a guest,” Eames counters, also not for the first time. “There is no way I’m making you sleep on the sofa, where believe me, I have slept before, and therefore I possess first-hand knowledge of how very uncomfortable it is.”

Arthur, struck by inspiration and held by a hundred hang-ups and insecurities, hesitates, then decides to just do this.

He says, “I’m gay.”

Eames, clearly bewildered, says, “alright.”

“I just felt you ought to know before you hear my suggestion. I’ve seen your bed, it’s big enough for two people. We could just share.”

When Eames had been the picture of confusion before, he now looks like the poster child of Delight. “Darling,” he says, amusement thick in his voice, “if you wanted to sleep with me, you could’ve just said so hours ago.”

Arthur looks him dead in the eye and says, “are you offering?”

Eames barks out a laugh. Arthur continues to look at him. Eames stops laughing. A moment later, they’re kissing. It starts out soft and sweet.

It doesn’t stay that way.

***

In the morning, Arthur wakes to Eames making breakfast, again. He’s not entirely sure what the protocol is, here – he’s had one night stands before, and usually one of them should have left in the early hours of dawn. But, well. Since it’s Eames’ flat, leaving is up to Arthur, except for obvious reasons, he can’t leave either.

He just hovers outside the kitchen for a bit, contemplating this, when Eames spots him, turns down the heat of the stove, and comes over to kiss his cheek.

“I bought coffee,” Eames tells him. “And the landlady rang, said to tell you she’d be in at about noon. That alright with you?”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Arthur says. At this, Eames starts to fidget. Arthur is instantly suspicious.

“What is it?” he demands. Eames fidgets some more and says, “I think the eggs are burning.”

“The eggs are fine,” Arthur says as smoke and the distinct smell of burning food start to fill the kitchen. “What is it?”

“Well,” Eames says slowly, faux-casually. “I suppose if you really wanted to go to your flat early, I could always pick your lock.”

Of all the things that have happened in the last 24 hours, this is the most astonishing one. Arthur repeats flatly, “you could pick my lock.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You could pick my lock. You can do that, that’s a thing you can do.”

“Are you broken?” Eames asks, sounding delighted.

“If you can pick locks,” Arthur says, ignoring Eames, “why the fuck didn’t you just say so yesterday?”

“I was going to,” Eames says defensively. “But I didn’t have any plans for the day, and your company proved so unexpectedly delightful, so-“

“Unfuckingbelievable,” Arthur says, although he’s just going through the motions at this point. He’s not actually angry – his last work project is finished, and it’ll be until Monday before the next one comes in, so it’s not like he missed anything important. And yesterday was…nice. Really nice.

Maybe Eames senses his change of heart, or maybe he’s just that insensitive, but either way, he moves in to kiss Arthur again. Arthur goes along with it, figuring this might as well happen, and they make out until the smoke alarm goes off.

***

For obvious reasons, they decide to eat out for breakfast. Later, they walk back to their apartment building, holding hands. They arrive at the same time as their landlady, who opens up Arthur’s door without a fuss and wishes them both a nice day.

Arthur, one foot in the door to keep it from falling shut, turns to Eames and says awkwardly, “so.”

“I’m going on a work trip tomorrow,” Eames says, interrupting him. Arthur’s heart plummets, but he tells himself that he should have expected this. “I’ll be gone ‘til Friday. But – how about when I come back, you come over? We never did finish that episode.”

 _Oh_. _Right_.

The truth is, Arthur would really, honestly rather gouge his own eyes out with a spoon than watch a minute more of The Jeremy Kyle show. But he also kind of wants to know if the sister’s neighbour’s triplets are secretly adopted or not.

Also, he really wants to see Eames again.

He knows his dimples are visible when he says, “It’s a deal,” and pulls Eames in for another kiss.

Later, when he’s finally started unpacking the boxes, he realises that technically, instead of wearing the shirt Eames threw at his head a few hours ago, he could easily change into one of his own now.

He doesn’t.  
 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ! I would love to hear what you thought.


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